The Disc
by TricksterSherlock
Summary: A while ago Lestrade had decided to film a message to the people he cared about and leave it with his will. A week after his death, Mycroft is watching his one. Mystrade oneshot. Character death and mentions of suicide. Not exactly the world's happiest story.


The Disk

Mycroft got home later than usual that night. Work to do. Things to finish. Paperwork to… to distract him, he knew, if he was being entirely honest with himself. The problem with Mycroft Holmes, professional British Government and part-time exasperated older brother, was that he was never really completely honest with himself.

He put his briefcase on the desk as he walked in, and next to it he set down the little plastic bottle of pills that he had been carrying around since Lestrade… since the start of the week. They sat in his pocket when he was outside the house, waiting for him to make the decision, one way or another.

He went to make himself a cup of tea. The entire time the kettle was boiling his eyes continuously flickered back to the leather case. He wasn't interested in the thing itself, nor even in the multitude of vital national secrets that resided there. No, hidden deep in that bag between confidential missile plans and details of terrorist groups, was The Disc.

It had been a long day. But that was nothing new; it had been a long week.

He made his way back to the dark wood of the dining room table and settled at the head, sipping gingerly at the scalding tea. The disc was placed in the laptop, the autoplay message appeared on screen, Mycroft's shaking hand hovered over the single file it stored before finally clicking it.

An image rose to fill the monitor, taken from a camera on a desk; an empty office chair in a painfully familiar, shabby basement flat became all that he could see for a few fleeting moments. Then a much younger Greg Lestrade entered the frame and took his place on the chair, looking straight at the camera.

'Mister Holmes,' he began, and Mycroft winced at the formal use of his name, 'If you're watching this, which you are, then I'm most likely dead, which isn't that much of a surprise. Or,' he added, seemingly as an afterthought, 'you're snooping, which wouldn't be that much of a surprise either, I suppose. But I'll give you the benefit of the doubt and assume I'm a goner. I hope it was a good death, taking down an army of drug dealers or something, or better, at a ripe old age in a retirement home surrounded by- whoever. I'm not too fussed, really. Just so long as it's not slipping over in the shower or killed by a poorly placed firework.' Greg gave a little laugh onscreen, and even Mycroft managed a dim smile.

'Then again, I don't suppose you really care.' Lestrade continued, and Mycroft winced again, 'I'm just the man that babysits your drug addict brother. Babysat, I guess.'

Mycroft's hand shot out and pressed the pause button. The younger Lestrade's face froze on the screen while Mycroft took a deep, shaky breath, hand hovering over the mouse. He didn't want to listen anymore, but he had to. He really, really had to.

He pressed play.

'Anyway, I just made one of these things for you to tell you… Gregson. If you need someone else to throw gruesome cases at that kid to keep him from killing himself with coke. DI Gregson.'

Greg Lestrade gave a concise little nod and leaned forward to turn off the camera. For a few seconds Mycroft was left staring desperately at a black screen. The memory, so fresh, that would forever be seared into the forefront of the genius's mind rose to the surface again in fragments. He had been there, meeting Greg that night, wanting to talk to him about some errand or another that had seemed so vitally important at the time. This much the report didn't bother with. What the report did speak of was some vengeful remnant of a long gone group of criminals that Lestrade had taken down. In reality it was one distressed twenty-something-year-old, powered more by some panicky rage than anything else. He had a gun. Lestrade had been hit. That was all.

The report didn't mention the colour that blood took on under bright fluorescent lights, when it turns a bright red like cheap paint, so different to the deep crimson he was used to seeing in movies. It knew nothing of the way that it had seemed like fake blood to his dazed mind, like some horrible joke with a punchline that refused to come. The report said that the shooter gave himself up. It couldn't say anything of the way the stranger's terrified eyes widened as he realised all that he had done, or the shaking fingers that couldn't hold the pistol steady and then couldn't hold it at all, letting it clatter to the tiled floor of the café. The cold type of the report didn't know anything about the victim. The police officer who had fallen. It knew him as Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade; it would never know of the sometimes sarcastic, often overworked detective with the caffeine addiction and the rare ability to just deal with anything.

But the picture came back and then there he was again, different clothes, different lighting, even the room that that same chair was sitting in was different. He had moved back in with his wife.

'Just an update, Mister Holmes,' Lestrade began, launching right in, 'Now since I'm dead- and you're probably trying to find the next person to keep your stupid brother entertained- try not to make Gregson hate you. Quick hints-'

Mycroft pressed pause again, his hand shaking. A few more deep breaths. A sip of tea. He tried to remind himself that this was a younger Lestrade, one that didn't really know him. He swallowed, and pressed play.

'-first, don't do that whole secret squirrel thing to freak them out. Second, be less smug. Basically, try not to make people not like you, because that makes them less likely to help your brother.' Here he hesitated, clearly trying to decide whether or not to say what he was about to. Finally, he added, 'Or you could try to make amends with your brother rather than using all these roundabout ways to protect him. So there… wise words from beyond the grave. Basically; stop being a dick.'

Lestrade's half smile at the end was heartbreaking.

The screen went black again, and Mycroft's own cruel mind filled the space with a hundred different moments all compressed into a heartbeat. Lestrade's forced nonchalance as he got out of one of Mycroft's black cars for the first time. His second visit to the Diogenes Club when he had intentionally brought the poor quality iPod headphones and turned the volume up to full so that the silence of the room was disturbed by the tinny noise. And then, inevitably, Lestrade's usual unconcerned expression changing to startled recognition as he glanced up to the sound of the café door opening. Mycroft following his gaze in time to see the barrel of a pistol. A scream, a crack like a whip, Lestrade hitting the floor.

'Hello again, Mycroft.'

The man on the screen was still Lestrade, and still living with his wife. But he was older, wearing a jacket that he still owned- had still owned- and smiling.

'If you're watching this then not only am I dead, but you managed to keep watching after that last video. Sorry about that; now I think of it, it probably isn't nice to include a video in my last will and testament telling someone they're a dick. Although don't worry about that whole will thing, my wife's taking care of it. She'll probably buy herself many, many more shoes with the money.'

Mycroft couldn't help but smile a little; he had only met Mrs Lestrade a few times before their eventual separation, and had never found her anything less than unpleasant and with an unhealthy obsession for shoes.

'Anyway, the last video is still included because you should really think about that whole family reconciliation thing. Basically, what I'm trying to say, now that I'm dead, is that perhaps I might have misjudged you and maybe you aren't a complete dick. Just… take that as a complement.'

Mycroft realised this would be his only opportunity to understand how the man had thought of him in those past years, and his eyes flickered hungrily over the image on the screen, trying to deduce anything at all as the younger Greg struggled to think of the words to finish. But there was nothing new other than what he was saying, and what he was saying was, 'So, I guess, goodbye.'

Mycroft's tea was getting cold.

The two of them had been walking towards their table, talking, discussing a new favour that Mycroft had been about to ask of him. Greg interrupted, looking serious, about to say something. Whatever it was, it was clearly important, and Mycroft had been concerned. Lestrade hadn't really seemed himself. Lack of sleep, maybe; it was three in the morning. By all accounts it was full on at the yard, and Mycroft himself had been losing sleep over his own work. None of this was new. But then Lestrade looked up as a stranger walked into the café and something like fear widened his eyes. Mycroft turned around to see the young man in an old sweatshirt pull a gun. There was a fleeting moment where nothing at all happened but the sound of Greg drawing a breath. Then all at once someone screamed, a plate shattered against the floor, and an index finger tightened on metal. The man's eyes were rimmed with red, but they never strayed for a moment from Lestrade's face as he pulled the trigger. The gunshot echoed off the white walls and Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade was no longer on his feet.

'One last go at this, Mycroft.'

This Lestrade was older again, and, judging by the shitty flat behind him, was "taking some time apart" from his wife. He was also sporting a fresh cut above his eye, deep scarlet and framed by the violets and indigos of an early bruise. Mycroft remembered that cut, he had been working a case with Sherlock and John, there had been a fight, it had been close. Apparently Lestrade was more shaken than he pretended to be.

'Nearly died today,' he said, in a forced casual voice, confirming Mycroft's chain of thought, 'and I remembered I haven't added anything to this thing in a while.' He seemed to be very interested in the desk lamp next to him, 'Things have changed. You might miss me. I certainly like to think you'll miss me. And if you miss me then you're not as cold and uncaring as I used to think you are.'

Now it was a mug of pens that Lestrade seemed to be addressing, 'And I know you're not. I probably wouldn't be doing this now if you were like that. But I think you're getting better and I want you to know- if you do care about me enough that you're mourning me now- that this whole human emotion thing can _really suck_ sometimes. But it's important so, just don't turn it off. Okay?'

For the first time in that video Lestrade turned his attention to the webcam, 'Now for that other thing, you know the one. Goodbye, that's it. Goodbye Mycroft Holmes, I hope you have a really good life.

The screen went black again, and Mycroft took his stone-cold tea into the kitchen to tip it down the sink. The scene from the café once again played out so vividly in his mind.

For a fleeting instant the sound of the gunshot seemed the only sound in the world, loud and unexpected. The next moment felt unpleasantly like waking up; like a loud sound dragging him from sleep to find that the dream had vanished and the real world was cold and dark.

Then Greg had hit the floor, and Mycroft automatically dropped to his side. His first thought had been to attempt some sort of first aid, but a glance told him this was unnecessary. Lestrade's eyes were staring, unblinking, upwards at the cracked ceiling. The bullet wound was a red hole in the centre of his chest, which refused to rise or fall to even laboured breathing. There was no movement but the sluggish crawl of the fake-looking blood as it seeped outward. But its progress was slow; there was no heartbeat to push it onwards.

Mycroft glanced up to see the shaking barrel of a gun aimed between his eyes. He looked behind it to the man holding it, who wore something like panic etched into every feature. He was barely twenty-five, he had put his faith in the wrong people and, when those people had been arrested, hadn't been important enough to ensure him a long sentence. He was angry, but he hadn't killed anyone before.

The stranger was trembling now, the fury that had been so strong before fading into desperation. Mycroft was suddenly very aware that his life was in the hands of an angry, terrified ex-con. _Go on_, he thought, waiting for the man to make his mind up, _go ahead_.

The gun slipped from the stranger's fingers and clattered against the tiled floor.

Mycroft looked back to the dead man's face.

'Greg?' he said softly, and immediately felt stupid. Greg couldn't hear him, and would never respond, he was being irrational and it grated against the pure logic that formed the structure of his mind. Still, he couldn't stop his fingers feeling hopefully for a pulse at Lestrade's neck.

Nothing.

This wasn't how it was supposed to go, was it? Mycroft had spent his career looking at files and avoiding legwork, but he'd seen movies enough that a little, defiantly irrational voice in his mind was saying that this wasn't fair. This wasn't how death scenes went, surely? Greg was supposed to still be conscious, just for a bit. Mycroft was supposed to tell him that everything would be alright. They were supposed to have a chance to say goodbye.

A week later and with this memory burning in his mind.

'Mycroft.'

Mycroft dropped his teacup to the hard wooden floor, catching a glimpse of it shattering outward like some porcelain firework.

The Lestrade on the screen, lit only by a desk lamp and the ghostly glow that seeped from his computer screen, looked the same age as the Lestrade he had lost, and so very tired.

Mycroft walked back to the table slowly, eyes fixed on the image. The man was wearing the same clothes as he was when- as he was that night.

'Well, I think I can safely say I'm not going to be killed by a rogue firework.' He said, attempting a smile that couldn't hide the bags under his eyes or the sadness that seemed to hang off his every feature. He looked… Mycroft searched for the right word, his mind settling on "defeated", 'I'm… there was a group of criminals I helped catch a while back.' He sighed heavily, glancing at his watch, 'You probably know all this by now. But the point is- the point- I think I'm going to die.'

Mycroft felt a drop of water land on his arm. His roof must be leaking, he thought idly.

Lestrade was checking his watch again, and Mycroft knew why.

'I have to go meet you soon.' He swallowed, 'And there's something I want to tell you.'

Another drop landed on his forearm. He should probably do something about that. The leak would have to be bad to go through two stories. Another drop of water fell on his cheek and rolled down slowly until it dripped of his chin. He wiped it away angrily, trying to see the screen clearly through eyes suddenly and inexplicably blurry.

'But if I don't get a chance to tell you, and I might not, you have to know that I-' he drew in an uneven breath, 'You've probably worked out what I'm about to say, but I love you.'

There was no pretending to himself that the ceiling was leaking now.

The dead man just gave one last sad smile and said one last 'Goodbye, Mycroft.' And then the screen went black. Mycroft was left to himself and the little bottle of smooth, white pills.

The funeral was quiet, subdued, exactly, in short, like a funeral. People Mycroft had never seen before were hugging Greg's wife. She and Lestrade had been planning on getting a divorce, but small things like the two of them no longer having any love or respect for each other didn't get in the way of her mourning. Mycroft noted that the expensive black court-shoes she was wearing looked brand new.

Judging by the way Sherlock avoided his eye, his younger brother's powers of deduction were still working fine. Mycroft couldn't summon enough concern for himself to care.

He didn't wait at the grave afterwards, nor whisper the words he so wanted Greg to hear to the coffin. The man was dead. Nothing more than decaying organic matter with no spark of intelligence or humour, emotion or bravery, loyalty, anything that made him human. The stubborn logic Mycroft used to cherish now refused to allow him any comfort from muttering to thin air all the things he wanted a man who no longer existed to know.

The pills felt heavy in his pocket.

Mycroft didn't go into work the next day, or the day after. The important governmental files lay untouched where he left them on the polished table. At the end of the week the first suggestion of dust began to settle like the early winter hints of snow over the entire house. He'd fired his cleaners.

The pills had pride of place at the head of the table, where his laptop had sat. Even with his back turned, even in another room, he was always aware of their presence.

Sherlock texted him once, twice, and again in the early hours of the morning, never doubting that Mycroft would be awake. He was. He had been typing out an addition to his own will and testament; the idea of filming himself never seemed his style.

But Lestrade's recording had made him want to leave something a little less tangible after he was gone, a proper goodbye to the people he cared about. He was acutely aware that in the wake of recent events the people he cared about could be counted on one finger.

Mycroft read through the amendment again, nearly laughing at himself. It was purely, uncharacteristically, unapologetically sentimental, not a syllable of legal jargon to be found. Maybe there would actually be some semblance of a family reconciliation after all, just like Lestrade had said. As his eyes scanned the page he was struck by how much it read like a suicide note.

He still couldn't decide. But today, when he went to make himself his usual cup of tea, his ever-thinner arm reached for the last clean teacup on the shelf. The rest lay like fallen soldiers over the bench and in the sink. His decision was simple; he would have to clean the dishes, or… or he wouldn't.

He settled down at the table, sipping the scalding tea in one hand. The other hand was turning the little plastic bottle over and over. Maybe…

For the first time he could remember, the complex webs that wove through his mind- deducing, planning, endlessly thinking- fell away, leaving something so clear and so simple as this one final choice. It was today, or not at all.

He opened the lid.

The thing was, _the thing was_, he had never liked legwork, he had never liked adventure. Where people like Sherlock and John, Irene, Moran, Moriarty… people like Lestrade, had been so involved in all that they did, Mycroft had always been content to view the secret chaos of the world through computer screens and files because he was normal in one tiny way. He didn't want to risk his life. He was afraid to die.

Now, none of that seemed to matter.

His mind ran through the options over again. Yes or no. He finished his tea. The options were to take the pills or to stagger to his bathroom and flush them forever down the toilet. He felt the pulse at his neck with two fingers, unsure whether it would keep going after today.

And then he made his decision.


End file.
